


A flawless plan

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Freaks Out, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Panic, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:30:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after a night before. Dean wakes up beside his best friend, and is an expert at freaking out. But some things are more important than that.</p><p>(Like, cuddles.)</p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://whitmerule.tumblr.com/post/145989610580/pathsofpassion-whitmerule-whitmerule-saucynewf">this gifset of sleepy Dean</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A flawless plan

 

 

 

Soft shirt, and soft light, and soft sheets, and soft breath.

Dean Winchester woke up slowly. Relaxed and rested for the first time in… shit, who knew, long enough that it felt like a revelation. No thirst from too much booze the night before, no lingering guilt, no self-hatred over whatever dream was fading at the edges of memory.

It felt weirdly safe, weirdly good; and for a few moments after he blinked his eyes open and took in Castiel’s sleeping, scowling features, those felt safe and good too.

until he figured out

_shit._

The thrill of it ran through his body, hot and terrified.

 _That_. That had happened. That was real. Dean had really done that shit to his  dearest best friend.

And Castiel was still here.

(still here breathing soft and soft and soft and _happy_ into the pillow, relaxed like Dean had never seen him, legs sprawled open under the sheets and—was he _naked_ under there—? Dean could see his _shoulders_ —)

so what to do

uh

what _could_ Dean do?

Get out of bed, get out of there, find your pants and wipe off all the evidence and—

Except this was Dean’s room. Dean’s home. He couldn’t just leave, because, y’know, he’d have to come back.

And he’d have to see Cas again.

Even if he wasn’t _here_ , he’d have to see Cas again, because… Cas was _Cas_. Just like home. There was no running from that.

But Dean had screwed up. He always did. He’d screwed it up already and he _would_ screw up because he was a screw-up and that was the law of the universe, and—and—

He couldn’t run. That wasn’t what he did. Dean Winchester didn’t do the walk of shame. Dean Winchester didn’t run. What he did was, he made other people leave _him_. For their own good. He made sure they knew exactly what a piece of shit he was so they didn’t get involved ( _well, Dean Winchester, you’re about seven years late to the game with that here_ ), and, and…

And perhaps if Castiel had woken up first, things would have gone differently.

If Dean had woken up to see Castiel’s solemn, adoring eyes, his reverent and hopeful half-smile, to feel his lazy curious hand tracing over Dean’s ribs—well, then, maybe Dean would have been able to deflect. In that other world, that other possibility, Dean Winchester opened his eyes, and panicked, and sneered a lazy lascivious grin, and made some quip that turned it all into nothing, nothing more than getting off, fun and meaningless. And he managed to stay hidden.

But here… here.

Castiel wasn’t awake.

He was just sort of… smushed sideways into the pillow? With his mouth half open, almost snoring, and there was an eyelash on his check, and his hair was all… all soft.

And Dean had to look after him. Because that was what Dean did.

And one of Castiel’s arms had fallen off the side of the bed, and one foot was wedged awkwardly in between Dean’s calves, and the hand nearest Dean was just sort of… tangled in Dean’s shirt. Which meant that Dean could feel Castiel’s sleep-warm fingers against his ribs—just two of them—and they felt horribly real.

Like the way Castiel had looked at him last night, every time he’d said his name. Like Dean mattered.

The way Castiel always looked at Dean. Which took his breath away. Which made him do… stupid, _stupid_ things.

But, just for this moment, all that Dean could do was to mutter a breathless “dumbarse,” because Castiel got cold far too easily, and reach down to pull the blanket up over his shoulders as gently as he possibly could. Only because it had slipped down to his waist.

And once he’d done that… well. His hand was already there. It might as well just… slip, in a wondering sort of a way, down Castiel’s back. Just to make sure he was okay. Just to check that all that beautiful skin was just like he’d remembered it.

And if Dean rolled over just a bit further, just enough to press his face in against Castiel’s forehead and hyperventilate there… well, it was hidden, nobody had to know.

The small of Castiel’s back was a warm place, strong and soft, just the right shape for Dean’s hand. Five small points of contact, and one larger where the meat of his palm rested, right in the centre, over the imaginary pulse of Castiel’s spine. Dean breathed with his breath, matched the rhythm of his mind to the slow pulse of Castiel’s heart, and did his best not to think at all.

And if… if…

_shit_

If Castiel’s breath and heart should just happen to change their pace. And his hand should just _happen_ to stir. And to drag up over Dean’s ribcage, and spread and press to draw him closer. And if a little breathless, desperate, hopeful note should whisper out through Castiel’s throat, and Castiel’s head should turn just enough to nuzzle vaguely in against the top of Dean’s head.

… and if Castiel’s breath were to catch incredulously when he breathed in, and if the rhythm under Dean’s hand were to speed up as Castiel dragged his way back to consciousness… well.

What could Dean do but rub his back? To calm him down. Because. Cas was his buddy, okay?

Cas got worried about being left. Being alone. Being left behind. That was just. A thing. About who Cas was.

Dean would be a crap friend if he let him wake up worried.

Dean had to make sure Castiel knew that he was here. That he wasn’t going anywhere. Especially when Castiel’s hands grabbed at him, incredulous and tighter and tender, and Castiel’s eyes opened so wide that Dean could feel that wondering blue stare without seeing it.

Dean was in it deep.

Except.

(Dean’s arms tightened around him, tucked him in closer, shoved a possessive leg between Castiel’s thighs. And Castiel let out a soft breath, almost a moan, and burrowed in against Dean’s body, and his lips sought out Dean’s temple, half-open, like the breath of benediction.)

The important thing right now? Looking after Cas. Making sure he was okay. Making sure he didn’t freak.

Everything else could come later. Including Dean’s freak-out.

Because if there was one thing Dean Winchester was good at, it was avoidance. And if he could use that to avoid the moment in which he had to fuck Castiel over just to drive him away, then hell yes he’d do it.

Right. Good. Flawless plan.

Dean made his breathing slow down, and did his damnedest to doze off again, as Castiel’s fingers traced reverent little circles on the back of his neck.

The darkness was soft, and so were the blankets; and so was Castiel’s breath against his cheek.


End file.
